


About the next life

by fanforfanatic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Orgasms, Accidental Stimulation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, Wing Kink, dean sprouts wings, there a teeny plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:32:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic/pseuds/fanforfanatic
Summary: Dean and Cas are dancing around what's happening between them, when Dean's destiny catches up with him.





	About the next life

Garth calls Dean for an assist on a hunt while the Winchesters are already working a case. Still, Sam packs up, gets a rental and goes to him, leaving Dean to wait— _ I’m serious, Dean, don’t go after the coven alone _ —for Cas.

It goes well. He and Cas make a great team, after all. Dean does get whammied with a life progression spell just as the last witch dies, but it’s a non-issue because nothing happens. Dean is Dean is Dean. In fact, he makes it out of the hunt unscathed save for dirt on his clothes, and an itch on his back.

“I’m still dashingly handsome,” he tells Cas with a smirk as they make the trek out of the woods and towards the Impala.

Cas says, “I don’t believe you aging would affect how attractive I already find you.”

Cas does that sometimes. He says things in the same tone and cadence he says everything else, but they mean… more.

_ “Hand me that scroll.”  _ And then,  _ “According to Western standards you are aesthetically pleasing to the eye, Dean. Did you know this?” _

_ “I don’t appreciate your tone.”  _ Followed by,  _ “I’ve been searching but I haven’t found greener eyes.” _

For a while Dean thought Cas didn’t realise what he was doing, what his words implied, but then Cas said, as methodically as ever,  _ “I enjoy being in your personal space.”  _ Cas has to know exactly what he's saying.

Dean hasn’t figured out how to respond to these things beyond a dropped jaw or a clumsy  _ thanks _ .

“Perhaps,” Cas continues, “the witch was too weak in her final moments to carry out the spell.”

Dean grins and clamps a hand on Cas’ shoulder (maybe pulling him closer in the process). “A lucky break. I think we earned ourselves one of those, eh Cas?”

-

The streets clear as the Impala’s headlights reveal their long stretch, and the drive back to the motel is quiet, the radio left off, the men’s breathing inaudible and only perceptible in the expansion of their chests. Cas calls it peaceful once Dean stops squirming in his seat.

-

Walking from his car door to the motel door, Dean thinks of four things simultaneously:

  1. A shower wouldn’t hurt.
  2. He’ll finally be able to scratch that itch when he doesn’t have as many layers on. (The backrest of his seat did nothing for him.)
  3. Cas sans trenchcoat. (He thinks of this often.)
  4. “I don’t believe you aging would affect how attractive I already find you.”



Inside, he takes off his canvas jacket and tosses it onto one of the chairs. He scratches his back again, blunt nails doing little for him through the flannel.

“You stayin’ the night, Cas?” Dean asks and tries to keep his cheeks from matching the red in the plaid he’s tugging off. “Or do you have that thing in Heaven to get back to?”

Cas rolls his eyes and, as though he’d heard Dean’s silent prayer earlier, removes both his trenchcoat and suit jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. “That  _ thing _ is an upcoming surge of power that hasn’t been seen in millennia. You ought to be more concerned,” he scolds.

Dean can’t take him seriously what with how Cas bounces when he drops onto the mattress. Cas is staying.

_ At least until dawn _ . Cas doesn’t stick around often and when he does it’s never for long.

“Yeah, yeah, Cas. The next big bad is a’comin’. When is it not? I’m Dean fucking Winchester. I’ll handle it.”

Cas raises a brow and the corner of his lips.

Dean stops grinding his back against the half-wall partition in the room. Maybe not the best demonstration of how awesome he is. He steps away from it and offers an embarrassed smile. 

“Sorry, I—” The tingle ripples across his skin and it’s too overwhelming to ignore.

He presses his back against the corner of the partition again, bending and unbending at the knees to try and sooth the irritation. It doesn’t work, and he steps forward to scratch, over his shoulder with one arm, twisting the other around his side.

Dean tugs on the back of his shirt’s collar to pull it off, and groans as he scratches more, growing desperate.

“Dean?” Cas tries, getting to his feet and inching closer.

“Cas, fuck.” Dean’s back bows in pursuit of relief. “ _ Fuck _ . What is this?”

He stumbles forward and Cas herds him to a bed so that when he falls to his knees it’s on the mattress instead of the floor. Fingertips still scrabble over his skin, and fingernails leave angry-red streaks in their wake.

Cas looks afraid to touch him, but he settles a hand on his left shoulder, and a flash bursts behind Dean’s eyes. Something bright, larger than life, and beautiful—the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. Warm and familiar and  _ home _ . When it disappears, Dean can’t breathe.

All his equipment is working fine as far as he can tell, but there’s no room in his chest for his lungs to swell. He gasps, still scratching at his back, and falls forward so his forehead presses into the comforter. 

“ _ Dean _ .” The clear panic in Cas’ voice rings loud over the blood pumping in his ears.

Cas catches his wrists, and it hurts. It hurts so fucking much to _ not scratch _ that he screams in tandem with his raw skin. The wail rips the room’s still air, and Cas lets go like he’s been burned. Dean goes back to scratching and heaving in as much air as he can manage.

Two fingers go to his temple; he doubts this can be healed, but maybe Cas can figure out what  _ this _ is.

“Oh,” Cas says, staggering away.

Cas is terrified. Dean can hear it.

The tears in his eyes trickle into his hairline. He can’t find relief as he works his fingers over his back. That is until a nail snags on something soft and wet. Dean pulls, and it drags beneath his skin until it’s free. 

A deep breath. 

He lifts himself onto a trembling arm and brings his other hand forward.

Pinched between two fingers is a weightless plume stained pink with blood. Dean’s eyes move from it to Cas and back again. Over and over. Cas looks as frightened as he sounded. As Dean feels.

The reprieve, shrouded in confusion and the fear of the unknown, doesn’t last and the need need need for Dean to scratch comes back. He can’t resist it, doesn’t feel like he should. He gives in, and claws at his back. He pulls a few more lone feathers from his skin before they come out in white clumps. The more he removes the more he can breathe, like he’d been stuffed full with them.

Eventually, the feathers’ roots remain embedded in his skin. Every tug hurts, and Dean doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

Something rips out of his flesh, something harder than plumes, something like bone. The sting is hot and sharp, and he considers that he might be on fire, but it’s the sound that will stick with him. That will horrify him in dreams, years from now.

He calms.

Dean can breathe again. The itch is gone. He straightens so that he’s no longer curved in on himself, and white feathers tinged in shades of pink and red have sprouted out of his back, peeking at the fringe of his vision.

“Cas?” Dean says, voice quivering and wings quivering and heart quivering.

Cas knee walks on the mattress so that he’s right in front of Dean, and touches his fingers to his temple a second time. He finds grace. 

He finds  _ Dean’s _ grace.

When Cas braves looking into Dean’s eyes, still the greenest after all these years, they’re fixed over his own shoulder. Cas glances back.

“They’re black,” Dean says. “It’s how I imagined them because of their shadow, but I didn’t think...” Unsure, Dean whispers, “Can I touch them, Cas?”

Cas tries to speak but gives up on words and nods jerkily, mouth dry.

Dean reaches forward with his right hand, fingers tingling in a way that’s completely different from how his back was moments ago, a new type of itch he realises he’s always wanted to scratch. His right wing follows, expanding and surging so that it catches the table lamp and the corner of his eye.

Startled, Dean gets to his feet, moving fast, and spins on himself trying to catch an eyeful of the feathery fuckery coming out of his back. He smacks Cas in the face in the process, feeding him a mouthful of plumes. And Dean  _ feels it. _ Feels the touch of lips and the swipe of tongue and then he’s facing Cas again, wings vibrating wildly behind him.

“Cas…” He starts weakly but his voice quickly takes an agitated turn. “What the hell, man? What? What  _ is _ this?” He reaches behind him for a fistful of feathers, still damp with traces of blood.

“They’re your wings.”

“They’re wings but they’re not  _ mine _ ,” Dean all but growls out, not angry at Cas but at this fucked up life he leads, still wrestling with the things growing out of his back.

“They’re yours,” Cas reiterates. “They’re a manifestation of your grace.” A pause. “You’re an angel now, Dean.”

Cas’ face looks as disbelieving as Dean’s should but Dean doesn’t doubt it. He hears the words and knows them to be true. An energy licks at his bones, barely contained by his flesh, and hums in agreement. Dean is an angel. He’s as sure of it as he is sure of his name.

Blue eyes hold green ones for a long while. It’s a moment of calm they’re affording each other before the (shit)storm hits. It’s quiet and it’s just them and it’s safe.

Buzzing pounds against Dean’s skull when Cas looks away, tilting his head.

“What is it, Cas?”

Cas puts up a finger for Dean to wait. Dean does, as patiently as he can but apparently the wings don’t get the memo and they beat behind him. They knock over a chair, send the remote placed on top of the TV flying into the wall, and smack against each other before Dean attempts to still them with his hands. He manages tight grips on both but his arms get jerked back and forth.

After a few seconds, Cas straightens again, stands from the bed and says, “Angel radio.”

Dean lets go of the— _ his _ —wings and looks at Cas with wide eyes, a first wave of true panic hitting him.

“No,” Dean chokes out, a desperate lilt to his tone. Then, glaring, he says, “No, you can’t leave. You always leave me, Cas. Not this time. Not while I’m like this.” He’s back to sounding desperate and the increased frantic motion of his wings mirror it. 

Cas flinches at the words.  _ You always leave me. _ “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, moving closer tentatively, as though to keep from startling Dean further. “They’re saying the new power has arrived.”

With realisation, Dean says, “It’s me.” His wings thrash wildly almost knocking him off his feet.

Cas reaches out to him, only a few feet away now. “Dean, you need to calm down.”

“Cas how is this even possi- How can I? The aging spell… Did I die and become this? What- I-  _ Cas _ .” 

“Dean, you need to calm down and you need to control them.” Cas jerks his chin towards the space behind Dean.

Dean looks over his shoulder like he doesn’t already know what he’ll find there. Some of the watered-down blood coating his wings flicks onto his face and he turns back to Cas. “I don’t know how, Cas. I don’t know what to do. I—”

Cas closes the gap between them, and his extended hand lands on—no,  _ in _ —Dean’s wing. Fingers bury between soft feathers and the wings’ erratic movement stops immediately. Dean stills too, a broken  _ oh _ falling from his lips as his eyes glaze over. It’s like a blanket of calm settling over him.

Cas gets it. He knows what it feels like to be touched there, at least in his true form. “You’re okay,” he says, running his hand outwards, strong feathers gliding between his fingers and against his palm.

The wings slump, relaxing some, just as Dean lets out an exhale. “Cas.”

“I’ve got you,” Cas promises. “Let’s start by getting you cleaned up, alright?”

Dean gives a bobblehead nod. He'd agree to just about anything if Cas would just do that with his hand again. It feels divine in ways Dean wouldn't have been able to conceive before. It's like he’s discovered a new colour his mind couldn’t have conjured up.

He can feel where Cas’ hand is and he can feel where it's been, where it stroked him. The surface of his wing tingles in those places but it’s not just that. The energy inside of him, the grace that has replaced his soul, sings with pleasure. It’s like Cas is touching Dean on the inside. Like Cas has reached in and strummed exposed nerve.

Dean can’t concentrate on anything else as Cas maneuvers him towards the bathroom. He whines at the loss when Cas lets go of his wing to clasp his elbow instead. It’s only a second but it feels too long for Dean before Cas’ other hand settles between his shoulder blades, between his wings, and a finger nestles in amongst the feathers at the root. 

It’s a small touch, just the pad of a thumb, it shouldn’t feel like much at all,  _ but it does _ . Feels almost like too much. Dean’s entire world zeroes in on it and on the thrill that echoes into the rest of his body. 

Cas gets them inside the bathroom. He drops to his haunches, his hand following and slipping down through feathers, before he grips the tip of Dean’s wing making Dean a little dazed. He barely notices Cas remove his shoes and socks for him. He barely notices Cas undoing his pants and dropping them to the floor.

The next thing Dean  _ does _ notice is standing under the showerhead when it turns on. His back is towards the water and his wings flutter at the weak pressure of the drizzle. It’s different from the way water used to hit his back but it’s nothing like Cas’ touch.

“Shh,” Cas soothes, unbothered by the spray Dean’s wings send his way. “If you stay calm, they will too, until you learn control. I’ll teach you.”

“Okay, Cas.” Dean takes a deliberate breath in an attempt to relax, but it isn’t until Cas moves his hand in his wing again that the tension releases.

Cas’ hand strokes upwards in the opposite direction of Dean’s feathers and Dean’s head drops at the sensation. It’s sort of like changing the part in his hair, strands bending in a way they aren’t used to, eliciting a prickle. It’s  _ sort of  _ like that, only more. A lot more.

When Cas’ hand reaches the root of the wing, he runs it down the seam where it sprouts out of Dean’s back, fingers dancing over fluff and over the skin edging Dean’s spine. He does it again with both hands on each wing, and Dean chokes on his next inhale. As Cas spreads his hands out washing away the blood stains and pulling out broken feathers, Dean loses the ability to support himself, has to brace his forearms on the shower wall, has to press his forehead on the tile he'd usually avoid touching.

“Cas,” he says, “again,” even though Cas hasn’t stopped, nor does he plan to. Dean’s voice cracks on the belated  _ please _ he adds.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says because he'd never deny him anything.

The backside of Dean’s boxers is wet now, clinging to his ass which is why, Dean figures, his underwear feels so tight.

Cas keeps working diligently, continues even after the water runs clear. He tells himself it’s because he’s being thorough, but somewhere along the way he started pulling sounds out of Dean with every rogue feather that he wants to hear forever.

They're such pretty sounds, guttural and unchecked as they bounce off the walls of the small bathroom. Cas buries his hands deep inside the wings so that they completely disappear in the feathers. He runs his palms against the bones there and makes Dean tremble beneath his hands, makes Dean let out a keening sound he’s too far gone to be embarrassed about.

Cas draws his hands back, and Dean (and his wings) scrambles like Cas is what was keeping him upright. “Cas, more,” he begs, words slurred but tinged with panic at the loss.

“Turn around for me.”

Dean shivers at the deep voice, unable to remind himself that that's not the correct response to Cas speaking, unable to remember why.

“Now, Dean.”

Dean nods against the wall then pushes himself off of it. He finds it more difficult than it probably should be but his muscles have never been so relaxed in his life. He feels loose and perfect and like he could melt. He wants more.

Cas gives it to him, working the inside of his wings.

It’s so much and Dean, panting, has to hold onto Cas’ shoulders if he wants to stay on his feet. He throws his head back on a particular touch that sparks behind his eyes and hits the wall with a crack. He  _ moans _ .

“Cas, please, please, I need-” Dean shudders out a breath, his whole body shaking with it, and lets out a whine Cas has never heard before, one Dean’s never made.

“Look at me, Dean.”

Dean does, blinking away tears he hadn't realised were there. His entire body lights up when Cas’ eyes meet his.

“What do you need?”

“More.  _ You _ .”

Cas swallows and nods, keeping his eyes locked with the wide, shiny, green ones in front of him as he brings his hands back to the base of Dean’s wings. He has to step a little closer to reach around him, lean over the lip of the tub, lean into Dean’s personal space, but once he gets his hands there he grabs a fistful of feathers and tugs on them gently.

Dean is still looking into Cas’ eyes when he tenses—an almost foreign feeling after being loosened up so thoroughly—and comes. The orgasm rocks him enough that he stumbles into Cas, clutches onto the angel and pants into his ear as he rides it out.

Cas keeps petting Dean’s wings, keeps petting Dean’s wet hair, and it creates spikes of pleasure Dean isn’t used to. Nothing about this is what Dean’s used to. What happened doesn't dawn on him until he’s no more than a sack of bones (and feathers) in Cas’ arms.

When he does realise, he stumbles back, wings hitting cold tile. He looks down at his crotch like he’s offended by it, then back up at Cas.

Cas is just as astounded. He knows the delight of having his wings groomed, his brothers and sisters have done it to him many times in his true form when he was in Heaven. However, no one has touched Cas’ wings whilst he occupied a vessel. Perhaps it is different when tethered to a human body. Cas hadn’t realised Dean was having a sexual response.

“I didn’t mean to,” Dean says, pressing himself further into the wall. “I didn’t even know it was happening.”

Cas watches Dean’s features shift into a grimace of horror. “Dean, it’s okay. You—”

“It’s not. Get out, Cas.”

“Dean.” Cas’ voice cracks on the word. 

Dean is going through a lot, Cas gets that but Dean didn’t do anything wrong. He is an angel, no longer human, harboring grace in a body that now limits the true extent of his strength. His wings are wisps of that grace seeping out of him. Raw angelic energy powerful enough to carry him through space and time. Powerful enough to alter the tides. To have that touched is overwhelming. It is understandable. Dean doesn’t need to look as guilty as he does. Then again Dean has a habit of taking blame for things he is not responsible for.

Is it Cas who has done something wrong?

“Just- I need a goddamn minute, alright?” Dean looks scared. Cas thinks it’s of him. 

After a beat, Dean says, “ _ Go, _ Cas.” He goes so far as to point at the exit.

Cas half stumbles out of the bathroom. At the door, he murmurs, “I’ll wait out here.” 

The soft click of the door is followed by an almost-silence. The water streams onto Dean’s side and patters into the tub, but Dean’s mind is quiet. Despite his momentary panic—his need to not be looking into Cas’ eyes, to not have Cas’ eyes looking into  _ him _ —he is still incredibly (as in mildly lacking believability) calm. Maybe it’s that his wings are appease, maybe it’s the orgasm that definitely makes his top five list. Whatever it is Dean hasn’t felt this relaxed in a really long time. Years.

The quiet won’t last though, it never does. Still, for the time being, Dean gets a reprieve from the shit show. Mindlessly, he peels off his wet boxers and drops them with a smacking sound at the other end of the shower. He rinses himself in the too-cold water without thinking of what exactly he’s rinsing off.

He’s pulled on his jeans (forced commando) by the time he’s at the bathroom sink which is when the dam in his head cracks and the flood of thoughts overwhelms him. He doesn’t bother wiping off the mirror’s condensation, he doesn’t want to see his own face right now. Doesn’t want to have to deal with what he did.

What he did is come from Cas touching him.  _ Fuck _ . Cas touching his  _ wings.  _

_ Fuck. _

Wings he did not have two hours ago and now are strapped to his back. And they’re  _ sensitive _ . At least when Cas’ hands were in them. 

_ Cas. _

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

Dean just let himself… with Cas. And it was good.

And that’s the problem isn’t it? That it was good. That it was some of the best. That it was  _ Cas _ .

Dean can still sort of feel it. Phantom touches wisping over his feathers, loose grips at the tips of his wings, _ firm grips at the root _ . Dean groans in frustration at his dick, twitching against rough denim. 

It’s not like Dean doesn’t know what Cas wants from him, the dude hasn’t been subtle in a while, and maybe Dean sort of kind of wants the same thing too. That doesn’t mean Dean gets to have it and it doesn’t mean he can get off in the shower with Cas’ hands on his goddamn wings.

Dean takes a deep breath. It doesn’t help. 

The noises he made echo in his head like they did against the tile. He asked Cas for more like a goddamn— Dean’s cheeks warm and he can only imagine which shade of red they are. How could he let this fucking happen? It didn’t register that it was happening until after. In the moment, the whole time Cas was... Cas was touching him, it felt like bliss. Dean can recall the feeling in his chest, like remembering a dream, and Dean wants it again. Not that he can have it.

When he looks back up, Dean is surprised to find his reflection in the mirror, framed by large white wings drawn close like they belong. He’s been in here long enough for the condensation to have dissipated which means he’s been in here way too long. 

He can handle one accidental orgasm, dammit. This doesn’t have to be a thing. It doesn’t.

He takes another deep breath and this one calms his jitters at least a little. 

Dean exits the bathroom with the intention of beelining to his bag for a shirt (how does he put one on over his wings?) but Cas is right by the door holding out a drink for him. Which, yeah, maybe that’s the best thing that’s happened to him all day.  _ Second best,  _ the part of him that’s still floating from his orgasm argues. Dean knocks back the drink and Cas is already filling the glass with more. Dean knocks that one back too, but pauses between sips of his third.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says and Dean has to look away because Cas means it so much. The apology is painfully plastered all over his face. Somehow, Cas has become the most human out of the two of them.

Dean means to tell Cas that it’s okay, that he knows he was only trying to help. He says, “It was good,” and his eyes widen at his own words. “I mean- I—”

“I know, Dean,” Cas says so that Dean doesn’t have to explain it to himself. 

“I have control over my own jizz, usually,” Dean says anyway.

Cas quirks a smile and nods. After a long silence he says, “It is something that angels do as comrades. After battles. After war. It strengthens bonds.”

Dean’s face twists. “Aren’t you guys technically related?”

Cas laughs a little. “Everything that exists is born of our Father. I am just as much related to angels as I am to the fly buzzing outside your window.”

Dean can hear the fly. Angel ears?

“Besides, it is not a sexual act ordinarily. I did not foresee you becoming erect. I only wanted to calm you.”

Dean is back to being red. Cas definitely accomplished what he set out to do, his wings aren’t erratic anymore.

“I believe the fact that you were huma— That you weren’t always an angel might make things different for you. Or perhaps it is how a vessel interprets the stimulation.”

“Wait so you haven’t…”

Cas shakes his head. “Not since I came to earth.”

Dean nods jerkily, and finishes his drink, pouring another.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Cas.”

Cas nods like he wants to believe it.

“We don’t ever have to talk about it again, okay?”

It's not okay.

Dean finishes his fourth drink and realises with a start that he can’t feel it at all.

“Sonovabitch. Can I even get drunk anymore?”


End file.
